


Connection - Misconnection

by Jake_the_space_cat



Series: A Creature of Pride [6]
Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: -isms, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anger, CW Cop Culture, CW Racism, Gen, Grief, Loss, Pre-Canon, Precinct 57, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-21 22:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30029109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jake_the_space_cat/pseuds/Jake_the_space_cat
Summary: (Two versions of one scene - one I posted originally and the other newer.)You never let the bereaved see you as anything but a professional. You always keep that distance.Eyes' funeral makes that hard.CW for cop culture reflected through a character who's self-aware of its flaws to a degree but not to a degree that (has yet to) completely break(s) his identification with it.
Series: A Creature of Pride [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2160411
Kudos: 4





	1. Connection

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies to folks whose comments got lost in me reposting this! I should have thought of just adding a chapter to the original version first, but my clicking fingers went faster than my brain.
> 
> Luc is Eyes' actual name, in this AU. In an earlier story, Kim broke into Eyes' apartment when he didn't come to work or respond to any attempts to contact him, and found Eyes dead of a pyr OD.
> 
> "Connection" is the original version of this scene, posted earlier on its own. It's a little sad but sweet.
> 
> "Misconnection" is an alternate version of the scene, in which exactly the same things happen externally, but the internal narration/interpretation is very different and the tone changes greatly as a result.
> 
> This is the kind of idea you have when you're in the ER going, "I have no idea what's wrong, but I'll think about how a fictional character might respond to a situation in several different ways, because I'll take whatever coping mechanisms I can get and also I'm worried but bored," and then you get home and are still worried and bored but have your laptop.
> 
> As often with this series, you can read this one as Kim being cis or trans. As far as intersectional issues, trans isn't surfaced in this one; racism and gay orientation are (especially in the second version). Always open to con crit, for intersectional issues.
> 
> As usual, this fits in between pieces I've already written, because planning and writing in chronological order are beyond me. (I've got [a masterlist of chronology for all of my DE pieces here](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/12Mfej90pwfLsLANPI3nuLRqnoAc8u3DW1vgy3icTK-w/edit#gid=0).)

When an officer falls in the line of duty, procedure for the funeral is clear and cathartic. Every vehicle in the precinct - and often from other precincts, as well - joins the convoy, no matter how long it means they may hold up traffic. Unmarked, patrol, response, surveillance, motorcycles - if the horses could run fast enough, they’d be included, too.

They run with lights flashing but no sound. They are responding to an emergency, but not the kind you can prevent.

The public watches, stalled at lights along the route. Driving his Kineema, Kim doesn’t glance tothe side at intersections. He’s been in enough convoys to know the expressions on those watching faces. Very few of them will have seen so many police vehicles (or so many kinds) at once before. Some of them will be curious or frightened, wondering what disaster could require that large a response. Others will be furious at the long delay as the convoy passes by. Some will understand what they’re seeing and look thoughtful or satisfied, depending on their opinion of the RCM. The children will be excited, especially the ones that love cars.

None of them will be mourning. Every officer attending wears the uniform. Plainclothes and patrol, seniors and rookies, high-ranking and low-ranking. This is not a time for personal style. It is not a time to stand out. As they stand beside the waiting grave, they form a solid wall of black, swallowing the light.

One part of a whole goes into the ground, but the rest remains. It is not individual men here today, but the RCM. The continuing whole, stronger and more resilient than any of them could ever be alone.

Lt. Luc Mauger’s funeral is well-attended, but not as well as other RCM funerals Kim has attended in the past. No one is quite sure if his death counts as line-of-duty. In Kim’s firm opinion, it does. He will (and has) told that to anyone who suggests otherwise. Dying for the RCM is dying for the RCM - whether you were shot in the streets or finally ODed on the pyr you were taking to get through each day. Whether either death is a hero’s death is debatable. Whether they are deaths in service is not.

The funeral is difficult. Some of the other officers attempt to give him condolences. These are awkward - he had only been Luc’s partner for a year. Is that long enough for Kim to earn the grief his recent (increased) reserve is poorly covering? The inevitable rumors are going around - that Kim is reacting so strongly to Luc’s death because he and Luc had been “fuckbuddies.” Mercifully, very few people who worked closely with Luc believe those rumors.

Luc’s sister is at the funeral. His parents died years ago, and he had little to do with his extended family. But he and his sister, Alison, were close. She’s traveled interisolary at very short notice to be here today.

They meet briefly.

“You’re Kim,” she says, through tears she’s clearly trying to hold back but that fall constantly and silently regardless. “Lt. Kitsuragi,” she corrects herself. It wasn’t hard for her to pick him out from the other officers, of course. “He always had good things to say about you.”

_He talked about you with her. You were important enough - enough of a person - for him to share with her._

He takes a long, deep breath and lets it out slowly. Not a sigh. Just a moment to make sure he won’t offer her tears in return.

_You never break in front of civilians, not as an officer. If you break, the order of the universe goes wrong. For them. And for you._

“I’m glad to hear that. Thank you.” A quiet moment, both of them considering how to proceed.

_You minimize contact with the bereaved. You don’t let their grief become yours. You don’t internalize any of their stories. You show them compassion but always, always maintain a professional distance. The first rule of DOAs._

_'I’ll miss him.'_

_'I couldn’t make him listen. '_

_'I tried.'_

_'I’m sorry.'_

_None of those are options._

“He--” Kim’s voice does catch. He covers with a cough, though not well. “He was one of our best. It was an honor working with him.”

_'I wish I had been able to work with him longer.'_

_Another thing you can't say. You don’t meet civilians’ emotions with your own._

Kim’s gaze shifts, settles just to the side of Alison’s. Avoiding eye contact is as close as he can get, in this moment, to removing his eyeglasses - to making the world a safe, undemanding abstraction.

“I very much wish I had been able to work with him longer.”

Something catches in her face, and Kim’s eyes move back to meet hers, reflexively, against his will.

_There is a moment of connection. The recognition of shared loss; the gratitude of a family member realizing that their loved one spent their last working days, their last working year, with someone more than a coworker._

_With a friend._

They share a few more words. She wishes she could take Fleur, Luc’s cat, with her when she leaves, but quarantine is an entire year. She can’t do that to Fleur. He assures her he will take good care of her. She’s grateful. She’s sure he will. Can he send photos? Just now and then.

_She’s embarrassed. It’s a strange thing to ask of a police officer, not to mention of someone you don’t know. But how can you say no?_

He will.

He does. Every two months. Accompanied by a short note. He’s never sure what to say. Is it important, where a cat sleeps? Which narrow window she looks out of most often? Whether and how she seems to enjoy being touched? It must be. So that’s what he writes. The sentences are as precise and formal as those in his own notebook.


	2. Misconnection

When an RCM officer falls in the line of duty, procedure for the funeral is designed to be clean and cathartic. Emotions, doubts, public image - all have to be managed without noticeable hesitation. Without any time for officers or the public to form questions. Every vehicle in the precinct - and often from other precincts, as well - joins the convoy, no matter how long it means they may hold up traffic. Unmarked, patrol, response, surveillance, motorcycles - if the horses could run fast enough, they’d be included, too.

They run with lights flashing but no sound. The message must be clear: they are responding to an emergency. To respond is not to cause; it is to act after the fact. This language washes the RCM's hands of responsibility.

The public watches, stalled at lights along the route. Driving his Kineema, Kim doesn’t glance to the side at intersections. He’s been in enough convoys to know the expressions on those watching faces. Very few of them will have seen so many police vehicles (or so many kinds) at once before. Some of them will be curious or frightened, wondering what disaster could require that large a response. Others will be furious at the long delay as the convoy passes by. Some will understand what they’re seeing and look thoughtful or satisfied, depending on their opinion of the RCM. The children will be excited, especially the ones that love cars.

None of them will be caught in a dissonance of guilt and grief fighting for space with anger and frustration. He is alone in that.

The sound of the dissonance will shift and transform until it quiets enough to be the low, constant background hum he has, so far, succeeded in living with. The shudder of opposing sheets of ice, one against the other, that is being who he is and working for the RCM.

Every officer attending wears the uniform. Plainclothes and patrol, seniors and rookies, high-ranking and low-ranking. This is not a time for personal style, officers. It is not a time to stand out - even if you have always stood out, no matter what clothes you wear. As they wait beside the still-empty grave, the RCM must form a solid wall of black, swallowing the light.

This is more of the theatre that must be played out, the message that must be sent: One part of a whole goes into the ground, but the rest remains. It is not individual men here today, but the RCM. The continuing whole, stronger and more resilient than any of them could ever be alone.

Lt. Luc Mauger’s funeral is well-attended, but not as well as other RCM funerals Kim has attended in the past. No one is quite sure if his death counts as line-of-duty. In Kim’s firm opinion, it does. He will (and has) told that to anyone who suggests otherwise. An RCM officer's death is an RCM officer's death - whether you were shot in the streets or finally ODed on the pyr that threw a hot, protective haze of ideals over brutal reality. Neither death is a hero's death. Neither death is honorable. But they _are_ RCM deaths.

The funeral is difficult. Some of the other officers attempt to give him condolences. These are awkward - he had only been Luc’s partner for a year. Is that long enough for Kim to earn the intense emotion his recent (increased) reserve is poorly covering? The inevitable rumors are going around - that Kim is reacting so strongly to Luc’s death because he and Luc had been “fuckbuddies.” Mercifully, very few people who worked closely with Luc believe those rumors. It's enough to know second- and third-hand that they are circulating; Kim has no desire to hear the words directly.

Luc’s sister is at the funeral. His parents died years ago, and he had little to do with his extended family. But he and his sister, Alison, were close. She’s traveled interisolary at very short notice to be here today.

They meet briefly.

“You’re Kim,” she says, through tears she’s clearly trying to hold back but that fall constantly and silently regardless. “Lt. Kitsuragi,” she corrects herself. It wasn’t hard for her to pick him out from the other officers, of course. “He always had good things to say about you.”

_He talked about you with her. You were important enough - enough of a person - for him to share with her._

_But no matter how much you respected him, even liked him - should clearing that low bar be enough?_

He takes a long, deep breath and lets it out slowly. Not a sigh. Just a moment to make sure he won’t lose control.

_You never break in front of civilians, not as an officer. If you break, the order of the universe goes wrong. For them. And for you. And there will be repercussions._

“I’m glad to hear that. Thank you.” A quiet moment, both of them considering how to proceed. He knows she wants comfort. He is uncertain if he can give it.

_You minimize contact with the bereaved. You don’t let their grief become yours. You don't project on them. You don’t internalize any of their stories. You show them compassion but always, always maintain a professional distance. The first rule of DOAs._

_This provides protection. It also minimizes the chance you may reveal cracks in the RCM's facade._

_There are any number of things you could say that are both simple and true. That'll you'll miss him, that you tried to intervene, that you're sorry._

_These things are expected, understandable._

_But there are other things you feel, other things you could say, that she would not understand._

_If you say them, your career ends._

He will say them someday. But not here.

He covers his long pause with a cough. “He was one of our best. It was an honor working with him.”

His gaze shifts, settles just to the side of hers. Avoiding eye contact is as close as he can get, in this moment, to removing his eyeglasses - to reducing the world to a safe, undemanding abstraction.

“I wish I had been able to work with him longer.”

_This is also true. She will hear that in your voice. She will be grateful for it._

_You did want to continue working with him. You did like what you knew of him. You did respect his work._

_But no matter how long you worked with him, he would never have understood the moments when you let your anger show._

_At the RCM, at him, at Revachol, at yourself. At the bitter sense of futility that always follows the anger._

Something catches in her face, and his eyes move back to meet hers, reflexively, against his will.

There is a moment of grief and fatigue that passes between them. On her part - the recognition of shared loss, the gratitude of a family member realizing that their loved one spent their last working days, their last working year, with someone who valued them. 

On his part - the weariness of standing at the place where the dissonance is loudest, where the sea ice shifts against itself. Where the only safe places he truly has are a Jamrock studio apartment and the single front seat of his Kineema. 

They share a few more words. She wishes she could take Fleur, Luc’s cat, with her when she leaves, but quarantine is an entire year. She can’t do that to Fleur. He assures her he will take good care of her. She’s grateful. She’s sure he will. Can he send photos? Just now and then. 

She’s embarrassed. It’s a strange thing to ask of a police officer, not to mention of someone you don’t know. 

_You could say no. Will you?_

He says yes.

He sends the photos. Every two months. Accompanied by a short note. He’s never sure what to say. Is it important, where a cat sleeps? Which narrow window she looks out of most often? Whether and how she seems to enjoy being touched? It must be. So that’s what he writes. The sentences are as precise and formal as those in his own notebook.


End file.
